After my shower, I saw Jake with the puppy on a leash. She'd tried putting it back in its own yard, but it had gotten out again. So, when I left for work this morning, Jake and Lucy were trying to figure out where they could stash the puppy away from Ms. Cow (who doesn't spay or neuter her ever growing population of outdoor cats either) and her evil spawn until Jake can take the dog to her mother on the weekend.

I don't even want to delve further into the complete lack of responsibility Ms. Cow has for their pets. It's too much. She sucks.

Something is bugging the shit out of Trinity, so I figured I'd address her guestbook question. She wants to know, why, in all of my sizzling date reports, do I never come. The honest to god truth is, yes, I am made of steel. Abs of steel, buns of steel, tits and toenails of steel.

No. The real truth is, I just have a very hard time coming with the aid of someone else. And my girlfriends aren't much into fucking me back anyway. They're all "do me, do me, do me," which I think is great. If I was writing to Dear Denzel, I'd say, "Dear Denzel, I have a fabulous sex life, but the only problem is I can't come when there's someone else involved in the effort." And Denzel would say, "Well, it doesn't sound exactly broke, so you don't exactly have to fix it. But if you really want to, practice your Kegels and let your partner tease you into a frenzy, and try not to be O-goal-oriented, blah, blah, blah." In fact, I think I've written that very advice for a very similar question on Denzel's page.

The way I deal with it is to not see it as a problem. I have a great time having sex with Deb and Sara, paying loads of sexual attention to them, being the 99% giver. I even get that loose-boned post-orgasm feel when we're done. I think it's actually a post-workout feel slathered with sex.

When I want sexual attention, I ask for it. Sometimes I just ask for stroking or touching, sometimes I want to get fucked or even fisted, but it's extremely rare that I can come (without the aid of a vibrator and a very unobtrusive partner). In fact, I could probably count the number of times on one hand, and even those were sort of wimpy, dissipated maybe-orgasms that weren't very satisfying. When I want it, I can get close to orgasm with a partner and just enjoy that got-close plateau.

But I'd rather have great sex with my girlfriend, get tremendously wet and vicariously enjoy her orgasms and the fantasized orgasms in my head. Then later that day, or the next or the next week, or every night for a week, I'll settle down by myself with a vibrator and a dirty fantasy, or my hand and a dirty fantasy, or my hand and a porn movie, and have a nice bone-cranking orgasm.

I think it's a control thing.

This was Claire's response to Remy's last mail last night:

Remy wrote:

>
> How about every time your eyes rolled back in your
> head in ecstasy? Every time your body
> curled up in the throes of orgasm while my fingers
> were buried inside you? When your cunt
> gripped my cock like a vise? Am I getting too crude
> again? Sorry. How about when you told
> me you'd thought you didn't like sex? Oh, yeah, and
> let's not forget when you asked me to
> fuck you one more time before I left.
>

Yes, I was convincing, wasn't I?

"Daddy..."

C.

When Remy read that, he ripped his keyboard away from his computer and threw it against the wall in his office. The direct e-mails have stopped, and it's turned into a running narrative.

Badsnake wrote:

I think Remy wouldn't respond. He's going to let her stew, and he's going to plan what he wants to do to her next. Hmmm. Just by looking at him, glaring at the walls like that, I'm not sure he's going to be able to wait another month. And that smile on his face�Would you even call that a smile?�it's scary.

After Remy's swearing fit this morning, the deputies are scurrying around looking diligent and busy (and looking for a computer place to go buy a new keyboard), wondering which one of them he's so pissed off at. They'll figure out it's not one of them by lunchtime. Something would've blown by then if it was anybody at the dept.

Jimmy's due at the Dept. at 10:00 a.m. so that Remy can accompany him to a job interview at the John Deere showroom. But by god if he's so much as one minute late, Remy's going to go to his apartment and drag him out of bed by the hair, drag him down the street (it's only four blocks) back to the Sherriff's office, throw him in the drunk tank and turn the hose on him.

I guess if that happens, the deputies will think it's Jimmy he's pissed at.

Sara wrote:

Claire wasn't sure how he'd respond, but the silence is ominous.

She was sorry the minute she hit send. But she was pissed too...she shouted "PIG!" out loud after both of those last two emails. But she went back and re-read them, too.

She didn't sleep well last night, and this morning in the shower she started to compose an apology. She decided to think about it til she got to work. But traffic was terrible and put her in a bad mood and the more she thought about it, the more she decided she didn't care what that shifty, manipulative, probably crooked sheriff thinks.

Although she wonders if she can come up with a good excuse to skip next month's appointment.

That's how she thinks of their meetings, appointments.

The first thing she does when she gets to the office is call a friend about possibly lining up some work for Jimmy. She feels better after that.

She checks her email. Nothing. Good or bad?

She's not going to think about it. It's time for work. Work. Lots to do.

So why does she keep catching herself staring into space and fretting?

And dammit, why does she care whether she may have hurt his feelings?

Badsnake wrote:

How's Claire's day going?

Jimmy showed up on time, but smelling like beer and pot smoke and wearing a rock concert t-shirt and ripped jeans. It would've been a matter of about 30 minutes for Remy to call a judge for a warrant, go search the apartment, possession, parole violation, Jimmy dumped in somebody else's hands. But that would mean an end to the agreement with Claire. He called Ernie at John Deere and told him they wouldn't be making the appointment and that he'd take him out to lunch next week.

So he threw Jimmy into the tank and turned the hose�a good half-inch high-pressure nozzle job for hosing out puke�on him until he told him where he'd gotten the pot. That was after he told the deputies to get lost or get busy elsewhere. Then he went through Jimmy's personal effects envelope�wallet, belt, shoelaces�helped himself to Jimmy's keys and went over to the apartment. The pot was in an oregano container in a shoebox under the bed�Jimmy's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, or he wants to get caught�and a pipe was shoved into a slit in the boy's pillow. The pot went down the toilet, the oregano jar into a dumpster, and the pipe got stomped into a million pieces in the alley behind the drugstore.

Then Remy walked over to the hardware store and purchased a nice shiny new length of chain. One that hasn't been drug through the dust and muck around the cabin like all the other pieces of chain he's got hanging in the tool shed.

He stopped by Burger King and got a whopper combo and coke to go, and then walked back to the office with the coke and BK bag in one hand and six feet of heavy chain in a sturdy paper sack from the hardware store in the other. At the office he threw the burger bag at Jimmy in the tank and set the coke inside the bars, then he went to his desk and pulled out a nice clean canvas bag that he'd gotten for donating to the library fund. He transferred the chain into the canvas bag, took it out to the truck, and headed out for Walker Ponches's shack by the lake, where he plans to beat the shit out of him and tell him not to sell to Jimmy and to pass the word, again, since everybody seemed too stupid to listen the first time.

Later on he'll pick up some dry clothes for Jimmy, call it a day, and head home for a bigass drink and some time to think.

Sara wrote:

Ungh. This is so hot, and there's nothing sexual about it. On the surface, anyway.

What's the chain for?

Claire hasn't gotten much work done. She started and cancelled two emails and has forced herself to stop checking hers.

She wonders how crazy she'll get if Remy just drops off the face of the earth for another 25 days. It didn't bother her at all before; made it easier to forget the appointment was coming (though she never totally forgets).

She forgot her paralegal's birthday lunch and has to make it up to her now; she knows the paralegal is a big reader so she got her a $100 gift certificate to Amazon.com. And rescheduled lunch for next week.

She's doing her best with the brief she is working on but it's not due til next week, and that's a good thing, because she'll have to proofread it to make sure she caught all the times she accidentally typed "Remy" when she meant to type "Re:".

Can she really stand waiting 25 days to find out how much trouble she's in?

Should she just go ahead and apologize?

She thinks a groove is getting worn in her brain from the same thoughts going around and around. At 2:30 she gives up, tells the secretary she has a headache and leaves early.

She goes to bed for a nap and drifts off to sleep�or most of the way to sleep. She wakes up with a start to realize that she's wet, her hand is in her panties, and she was dreaming Remy's voice growling in her ear.

Badsnake wrote:

Remy stepped out of his truck, which he'd parked in Walker's front yard next to the Camero on blocks, and walked up to the front porch with his canvas bag that said "Books Are Your Friends" and then "Friends of the Catahoula Parish Library" smaller near the bottom swinging from his right hand. With the chain, it weighed about four pounds.

Walker, sitting on the porch with a beer as always, stood, hitched his pants back up his ass, and met Remy in the yard with a look that said he was trying to think of the right lineup of words containing the phases "got no right," "my property," and "harassment" to make the Sheriff go away.

Remy surprised Walker by turning his back right when he'd finished getting rid of his tobacco juice and was about to start his words. But Remy kept coming back around, fast, and then that bag caught him right in the gut, right under the rib cage, and flung him off his feet and onto his ass.

A hunk of wet tobacco caught Remy in the chest, right on his clean uniform. Should've followed through more, then it might've missed. Ponches came up like a dog ready to fight, but Remy just whipped around again and caught a kidney this time. That slowed the rat Ponches down pretty good, and Remy took careful aims with the next blows. He went for a thigh, the upper arm, full on to the chest, seeing how many times he could land one at an angle that would keep the man staggering but still on his feet. Remy wasn't even breathing hard, but when he gauged that the other man might pass out or cough up a lung, he delivered his message. The verbal one. But the exercise didn't quite provide the kind of releif he'd hoped for. Remy still felt all wound up.

He went back to his truck, tossed the canvas bag onto the floorboard, took a fast food paper napkin out of the glove compartment, peeled and blotted the tobacco wad off his shirt and threw the mess of it on the ground. He got in, lit a cigarette, and drove for the cabin, radioing in on the way that he'd be taking a day off tomorrow. Anne on dispatch had to ask "What?" three times to understand what he meant. He had a lot of vacation built up.

He stopped by Uncle Joe's on the way and picked up some ingredients. When he got to the cabin, he pulled the big stock pot out from under the sink, lit the gas eye, and started the roux.

He took his time, and he thought about her. Wondered if he really knew what the hell he'd gotten himself into. She's a lawyer for christ's sake. It was a dangerous game. He set his bowl down on the table next to the bag, which had hardly suffered any damage at all compared to Walker. Remy looked at a dust smear on the bag and thought, "you shoulda seen the other guy," and laughed.

Claire wasn't going to like that chain one bit. It would be cold next to her skin no matter how warm the day. But he was looking forward to the way it would look wrapped around her. He enjoyed thinking about the role it already had in her life and her tangle of problems. He was thinking maybe he could bring it into play again sooner rather than later.

Can you tell I'm having fun?